Page 119 of Knotted By my Pack

“We’ll open again,” he murmurs. “You’re ready.”

I nod. Then smile. “But if anyone orders a sugar-free muffin after all the trouble we went through, I’m setting the place on fire.”

“Agreed.”

By ten in the morning, the front bell jingles nonstop.

The smell of coffee and cinnamon rolls fills the air, syrupy and warm, clinging to the flour-dusted counter and freshly polished tile.

The ovens hum in the background, the espresso machine hisses out shots one by one, and Noah—sweet, intimidating, sexy Noah—is wearing the pink apron I once bought as a joke and is handing out scones like it’s the job he was born to do.

“Your latte, Mrs. Dorsey,” he says, handing it over with a smile that’s half polite, half threatening. She flushes like she’s back in her twenties and winks at me.

“Let me know if this one gets tired of you, Cora,” she says with a little cackle.

Noah leans close to me as she heads to a table. “She’s eighty-two and she just pinched my ass.”

“Welcome to my world.”

He kisses my cheek, then turns back to wipe down the counter like he owns the place. Which, in a way, he does now. This is ours. This town. These people.

This life I nearly gave up on.

By noon, the bakery is packed. Parents with kids. Retired couples asking if we’ll be selling fresh bread again. I didn’t expect this. Not this many people. Not this much love. Not after the break-in.

I’m boxing up a dozen cookies for one of the high school teachers when the bell rings again, and a delivery guy wheels in a large crate on a dolly.

“Got a drop-off for Cora Bellamy?”

“That’s me.”

He has me sign something, then lifts the lid, and there it is. Gleaming chrome. New knobs. Double the power. A state-of-the-art espresso machine. The kind I’ve dreamed about but never let myself buy.

My hands cover my mouth as I read the note tucked between the packing foam.

It’s about time you had one worthy of your cappuccinos.

—J

“Oh my god.” I stare at it, tears welling. “Julian.”

Noah walks over, towel slung over one shoulder, sweat clinging to his neck from where he’s been hauling flour bags. “What is it?”

I show him the note.

He whistles. “Of course he did.”

“It’s beautiful.”

“Almost as beautiful as you were moaning his name last night.”

“Noah.”

“What? It’s true.” I swat his chest and he pulls me close, kissing the top of my head. “He loves you. We all do.”

I press my face into his chest and breathe him in. “I’m going to cry.”

“You deserve everything,” he says, quietly enough that no one else can hear.